How to Fall into the Pit (A Short Story)

How to Fall into the Pit

((A side note: the numbers that appear throughout are, respectively, time (in 24-hour clock), month, day, year.  By this you can see that it is the year 2032, and therefore this story is in the near future.  It would do well to pay some attention to the date and time, as it shows shifts, flashbacks, and time leaps.))

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19:27.06.19.32

Bright lights. White tiles. Lights, tiles. Then lights again. Everything was blurring together, then coming into such sharp clarity that he could spot every tiny crack in the ceiling. There was a voice in his head, screaming at him to get out of here. But he couldn't move, he couldn't hear. All he could do was watch as the white passed overhead. Then, slowly, as if he were only just reaching the surface of a deep pool, muffled sounds filtered into his clouded mind. The sound of hard rubber wheels skidding along a smooth floor. An incessant, repetitive beeping, shrilling forth vigourously. Voices, some shouting, others low and forceful. He couldn't make out what most of them were saying, though. The pain prevented him from focusing on anything other than the white tiles, the bright lights, the beeping. But the deadly words he heard from one of the people with the forceful voices, just before he lost consciousness, lanced right through to his numb mind: "He's going to the Pit."

04:13.06.16.32

His phone was ringing. Derek groaned, slit an eye open, and held it in front of his face. It was 4:13. In the morning. Muttering a few choice profanities to the caller with an obvious death wish, he accepted the call and rolled out of bed.

"Good morning, Mr. Vanne. You're needed in San Francisco."

"What?" Derek stood, gripping his phone. "When? I'm nine hours away, dammit. I need some more warning."

"Tomorrow, sir. Or rather, today. And he says this is your warning, sir. He wants you in by 14:00. You'll get your task objective then."

Biting back a few more curse words he paced the tiny room, not speaking.

"He says he can always find an incentive." This time the voice had undercurrents of a threat in it.

Derek froze for a moment. Then he loosened his muscles, and bottled up the spark of rage that the man's words had lit. He wouldn't let him provoke him into anger, especially over the phone and through a messenger.

"Yes, of course," he replied calmly, "Tell him not to worry. I'll be there." He hung up, and after a tense moment he hurled his phone at his bed. It must be important if they'd had to put that card on the table. God, it got him every damn time. He couldn't help it, though; not when they threatened Lyssa.

So after packing what little he had (he only carried the bare essentials) and wiping down the room, he woke up the aged receptionist and signed out of the motel.

06:06.06.16.32

Two hours later he was on the Needles Freeway, heading toward San Fran. This time he had a tiny sports car, with enough room for him and his pack, and nothing else. But it was so much better than the last vehicle he'd been forced to use. He'd been appalled by it's condition. It was luck of the draw, this part of the job. And this time he'd been lucky.

09:31.06.16.32

Another three hours later and he was passing through Bakersville, only stopping for a coffee, the restroom and some gas. He had no time to linger, what with four hours to go, and five to the meet deadline. So long as the traffic wasn't too bad, he'd make it.